Borgesdorf tensed behind his desk. The friendliness faded slowly from
his gaze. "All right," he said abruptly. "But if there's anything wrong
around here, I think you should tell me about it."
"Don't worry about it," Morrow sneered. "I'm quitting and that's that.
Keep your dirty nose out of it."
Borgesdorf's big, fleshy face reddened slightly, but that was all.
He didn't say anything for a few minutes. Then he gave a barely
perceptible nod. "Very well, Morrow. That's all."
"Sure." Morrow wheeled and stalked out.
Two days later, it was little Petersen. Petersen was a wizened, little
guy nearly sixty years old; he'd been playing around with radio when it
was a crystal and the cat's whiskers. He had consternation written all
over his seamed face as he came shuffling up to Morrow.
Morrow could almost hear the discussing that had gone on between him
and Borgesdorf--Petersen frowning worriedly as the chief said, _I
couldn't get a thing out of him, Pete. Can't understand it at all. See
what you can get out of him, will you?_
So here was little Pete.
"Hear you're quittin' us, Bill," he drawled nasally.
"What about it?" Morrow retorted, cursing himself mentally. Pete was a
nice, old guy--everybody in the labs liked him. Morrow liked him,
too ... but this was different.
"Nobody's done anything against you, have they?" Pete complained.
"You're throwing away a whole lot, son. It won't be gotten back easy."
His shrewd, little eyes watched Morrow, pensively. "The country needs
young fellas like you now, Bill--"
Morrow forced the sneer across his face again. "That's just too damn'
bad," he said evenly.